Torture
by IngridSarah
Summary: Wesley & Faith, post Five by Five.


Musings on "Five By Five." I haven't seen the continuation (x-over with "Buffy") yet, so continuity is probably off. 

~~~ Torture ~~~ 

Wesley felt Faith's leg twisting around his calf in the dark, and all he could see without his glasses on was a peach and brown blur. And blue. She must have been wearing blue. Her breathing was deep. Faith never dreamt, or at least, she never woke up from dreams. 

It was a Sunday, and Angel would be back from his trip tomorrow night, relieving the watcher of this strange duty. His cheek itched, but he didn't touch it. He knew it would heal faster if he didn't touch it, so he let it itch, and studied the hand gripping his shirtsleeve. 

Faith's hands were strong, like the rest of her, blunt painted nails flashing a message, like the rest of the disguise she wore. Danger. And that's what she had come to mean to him too. Danger. Pain. Fear. Anger. He remembered the night he had almost jumped out of his skin. 

It was Friday, the first night that Angel would leave Faith. He hadn't seen her much then, after the torture, save through the door a few times, when Angel had come in and out of his room. Faith would be sitting on the bed in just about the same position every time, her legs and arms crossed, her hair hanging in her face. Sometimes he would hear her crying and wonder why his chest burned whenever that happened. It only exacerbated the wounds she'd inflicted. 

But Angel was leaving, and Faith was staying, and Wesley couldn't fathom what was going through Angel's brain that would allow him to trust this girl. So he stayed, wounds and all. The watcher felt it his duty, somehow. And he hadn't seen Faith all day, though he could hear small sounds coming from the room. Cordelia had gone at 5, begging him to check out as well. 

"Wesley, you don't have to stay here, you know, with…her." She was making a face that reminded him of a cartoon. 

"I feel it's only right that I-" 

"babysit the psycho? What are you going to do? She's not a plant—you don't need to water her while Angel's on vacation." 

"All the same," 

"Be careful," she'd said with an uncharacteristic care in her voice, rubbing the bruise on her face, "Just be careful." She'd touched him on the shoulder, and he'd watched as she exited, her curly brown hair reminding him strangely of the girl in the next room. 

He'd gotten a noteworthy amount of work done when he felt himself sagging over with tiredness. He didn't have much stamina these days, and needed lots of rest because he was healing, Cordelia often reminded him. 

He stepped off to the new makeshift guest bedroom with a stray glance at Angel's door. It was still closed, and silent behind it. 

It was when he was in a half sleep; when he was just at the edge of the cliff, that he'd felt the hand on his shoulder; on his side. He couldn't have figured out which came first. The shock sent current so quickly through his body at once that he spasmed there. Faith's face appeared, a blurry spot above his head. 

"Woah. Easy, Wesley." 

His whole body went stiff and he remembered a sharp piece of glass slashing into his thigh. He waited for the knife in his chest. 

"It's ok. It's ok. I'm not going to hurt you." 

He couldn't bring himself to speak, staring at the hand below his ribcage. 

"Wesley?" 

"What are you doing here?" He couldn't help the fear cutting into his voice. The burn on the top of his foot buzzed with heat. 

"I didn't know you were here," she told him, not letting go. He still couldn't see her face. 

"Did you—I mean, I thought you were sleeping in Angel's room." He needed his glasses. 

"I couldn't sleep," she said simply, and then sat back on the bed to the side of his legs. She cocked her head to the side. "I'm—" and stopped. 

"I'm—" He saw her stand up. 

"I don't even know if you want me to say it." 

He couldn't tell what her expression was because it was still so dark and she was just a smudge in the darkness. He could search for his glasses. 

"Do you mean it?" he asked instead, and waited. 

She sighed. He could hear the movement of fabric and she sat back down on the bed. 

"I'm sorry." The voice was nothing Wesley would have recognized, without her here. He heard her sniff. She was rubbing her face underneath her eyes. 

"Where are my glasses?" 

"No!" She turned around sharply, and he nearly knocked his head into the wall. 

"I don't want you to see me," she explained in a whisper, "Just pretend. Just pretend I'm Cordelia. And he watched astonished as the creamy blob crept closer until it was laying next to his arm, holding his arm like a baby. They sat in silence and he lay there, paralyzed, as she ran her finger over his split lip so gently that he wondered if she was really there. 

She was asleep before his mind began to lumber to life. He opened his mouth as if to speak but found his tongue caught on the roof. Her hair was brown and curly and soft on his shoulder, and he watched it as the salty water pooled in his sockets and overflowed. He thought about Cordelia and Faith, and where he had gone wrong. His new scars burned in the night. 


End file.
